A broad staircase leads down from the nave to the subterranean chapel recently constructed for the shrine of St. Clare. Her sacred remains, by the permission of Pius
IX., were, in 1850, taken out of the narrow recess in the rock where they had lain five hundred and ninety years. All the bones were found perfect. One hand was on her breast, the other at her side with the remains of some fragrant flowers. On her head was a wreath of laurel, the leaves still green and flexible; and scattered around her were leaves of wild thyme. These remains were borne solemnly through the city she and St. Francis have made so illustrious. Children strewed the way before them with flowers and green leaves, after the fashion of Italy, and young maidens followed with lilies in their hands. In this manner they were taken to the Sagro Convento, stopping at six convents on the way, and brought back at night by the light of torches. They are now in a beautiful Gothic chapel, partly due to the liberality of Pius IX. Two nuns in gray showed us the shrine. St. Clare lies on a rich marble couch, with a lily in her hand, and the rules of her rigid order on her breast, surrounded by lamps. We also saw some of the long, fair hair cut off at the Porziuncula, and some of the fine linen she spun with her own hands.
Passing through an old gateway a little beyond Santa Chiara, we left the city and strolled leisurely down the long, steep side of the mountain, along a charming road lined with hedges and groves of olive-trees. The fields were bright with poppies, the trees melodious with birds, and the burning sun of Italy as intense as the soul of St. Francis, who must often have trod the same path. At length we came to a Madonna in a niche, at the corner of a group of buildings, with a few faded flowers before her, and, in a minute more, to an old church and monastery that looked as if they
needed again the restoring hand of St. Francis. This is San Damiano, homely and simple, but like a bird’s nest on the mountain-side, half hid among olives which, gnarled and twisted and split asunder, looked as old as the convent itself. It seemed a fit dove-cot for the gentle Clare and her companions, whom St. Francis established here in quietness and solitude.
A small court leads to the church, before which is a portico with a fresco of St. Clare repulsing the Saracens. These Saracens were in the employ of Frederick II. On their way to attack Assisi, ravaging the country as they went, they came to San Damiano, and scaled the convent walls in the night. The poor nuns, in their terror, took refuge around the bed of St. Clare, who, though ill, rose by the aid of two sisters, and, taking the Blessed Sacrament in her hands, she went forth on the balcony, chanting in a loud voice: “Thou hast rebuked the heathen, thou hast destroyed the wicked, thou hast put out their name for ever and ever!” This unexpected apparition in the darkness of night, amid the light that streamed around the uplifted Host, so terrified the infidel band that they took immediate flight. All Assisi resounded with hymns of joy. But a few days after they returned anew, vowing to take the city. Then Clare and her companions covered their heads with ashes, and, prostrating themselves before the altar, wept and prayed till the enemy was dispersed by the valiant citizens. This was on the 22d of June, 1234, on which day the inhabitants of Assisi vowed an annual pilgrimage to San Damiano in gratitude for their deliverance.
Everything in this convent has been left in its primitive simplicity. The bell is merely suspended from
the wall. The rafters are bare. The buildings are of unpolished stone. Everything bears the impress of the evangelical poverty its inmates embraced. But nature supplies what is lacking in art. The site is delicious. The view from the terrace is lovely, with the dear Porziuncula in the distance, and the fertile valley radiant in the sun.
Several steps lead down into the little, sombre church, which is only lighted by two small windows. There are some old frescos on the wall, a few votive offerings falling to pieces, tarnished wooden candlesticks on the altars, and faded flowers, as if fresh ones would be out of keeping. In an oratory at the right is a miraculous crucifix, carved out of wood by a Franciscan friar in the sixteenth century. The head is said to have been finished by an angel while the artist slept, and, in fact, has a wonderful expression, which changes with different points of view. On the steps of the altar beneath sat a child with olive complexion and coal-black eyes, eating a crust. She looked as if she might have been left behind by the Saracens. Not another soul was in the church. She had doubtless strayed in from a neighboring house with the usual liberty of the free-and-easy Italians, who have nothing of the awe of northern nations in the house of God.
On the left side of the church are several objects that belonged to St. Clare—a bell with too sharp a sound for so sweet a saint, her breviary, and the ivory ciborium, curiously carved, with which she repulsed the infidel host.
Going through the chancel, we came to the choir of the first Clarists, precisely as it was in the thirteenth century—small, dim, and of extreme simplicity. The pavement